


Every Last Bite

by roebling



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Belly Kink, Food Kink, M/M, Overeating, PWP, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon always clears his plate.  Spencer always notices.  (Please see notes for additional content warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Last Bite

**Author's Note:**

> This is an id-driven, itch-scratching indulgence of some of my very favorite (and generally very unloved) kinks. If this is not your thing, please feel free to pass right on by.
> 
> WARNING: This could be triggering to anyone with issues surrounding food, weight, eating, or eating disorders. The characters also practice unsafe sex. If you want any more info before you read, just message me. It's also not beta-ed and barely edited, so I'm sure mistakes abound.

Brendon hates to waste food. He thinks it’s some kind of travesty. Spencer’s not sure where it comes from. Maybe it’s some Mormon thing … or maybe it comes from being the youngest boy in a big family? Spencer, though, he's inherited a weird aversion to left-overs from his mother. He admits it. It's not something he's proud of but he can't stand the thought of horrible gross old food rotting away in the refrigerator. He goes through the fridge every few day to get rid of what's bad, while Brendon runs diversion.

"Oh, no, hey!" Brendon protests as Spencer tries to dump a container of days-old pasta into the garbage pail. "That's fine! What are you doing?!"

"It's from dinner a week ago," Spencer says, horrified.

"Geeze," Brendon said. "It's in the fridge. It's fiiiine."

Spencer mimes gagging and uses his superior mass and height to shove Brendon out of the way and dump the gross old pasta.

But yeah, it doesn't take long for him to realize that Brendon absolutely hates wasting food.  
It manifests itself in other ways, too.

Like, one night Spencer grills some burgers. They think maybe Shane is going to come over so he makes a few extra. He's not really all that hungry. So Spencer's not that hungry but there are extra burgers. Spencer finishes his one and that's it, he doesn't want any more but there are still two sitting on the plate.

With a determined look in his eye Brendon starts in on his second. Spencer's sipping his beer and they're out on the porch and Spencer doesn't even really pay attention until Brendon starts in on the third burger and tops his plate off with a big scoop of baked beans. He's got a kind of pained look on his face, but he looks determined, too.

"We could just feed it to the dog," Spencer says.

"No," Brendon says. "No, Bogie's not supposed to have so much people food. You heard what the vet said."

Spencer just nods, and watches, eyes half closed, as Brendon slowly eats that last burger. At the end he's got a pretty big bite left and he just shoves it all in. His cheeks bulge, and he chews slowly.

He seems a little woozy after that and no wonder. He goes and lays down on the couch while Spencer cleans up and later, when Spencer goes in to join him, he sees that Brendon has fallen asleep, one hand on his stomach, shirt ruched up.

After that Spencer pays attention and he notices that Brendon always, always, always cleans his plate. He won't leave a scrap of food on the table, and it's lucky he's got the metabolism he does because if Spencer ate like that, well ... he doesn’t look like Brendon even when he’s careful with what he eats.

But Brendon's just as lean as ever, except .... except. One night Brendon polishes off what must seriously be a pound and a half of spaghetti with turkey sausage all on his own. Afterwards, he leans back in his chair and pushes up his shirt, and Spencer can see that his belly is ... not flat. It's not fat, either. Brendon's not got even the slightest hint of soft, but his belly is all round and full looking. It bulges forward over the waistband of his pants, a smooth solid curve from the bottle of his sternum to his pelvis. Spencer’s fingers itch. He wants to know what it feels like. Brendon's skin looks really soft, and he looks so full. He bets it would feel like velvet, velvet stretched taut over a bowling ball, maybe.

Spencer doesn't know why it's so hot, thinking about Brendon's round swollen belly and the kind of determined content look he has as he shoves in that last spoonful of food. Later Spencer presses his face into his pillow and jerks off hard, thinking about Brendon laying back in bed, determined to eat an entire platter of sweets and pastries, his belly getting ever heavier and more turgidly swollen with good food.

Spencer feels sort of guilty that he’s getting off on this. He should say something to Brendon. He should say something, and Brendon will say something in explanation, and they’ll laugh it off, and the mystery will be gone and Spencer will be able to stop thinking about the way Brendon’s swollen stomach had looked, the way he had wanted to see what would happen if he offered Brendon more to eat. He knows he should say something, but this is weird. Even for them, this is weird, so he doesn’t.

It just gets worse. They have a bunch of bananas that are going bad, so Spencer bakes muffins. The thing though is that he hates bananas, so he doesn’t eat any. And for all that he likes to eat Brendon's not really a snacker, so it's a few days later that Spencer looks at them and tuts.

"Guess I'll toss these," he says, gesturing to the plate of untouched muffins.

"What? Don't do that," Brendon says.

"But they're getting all stale," Spencer says, frowning. "They're no good any more."

"They're fine," Brendon says. "Leave them." He waves a hand, magnanimously.

Later, Spencer comes downstairs and sees Brendon sitting at the table. There are two muffins on his plate, toasted and slathered with butter. There are another few wrappers sitting on the table. The platter of muffins is empty.

"Geeze," Spencer says. "You could have just thrown them away. You didn't have the scarf them."

Brendon swallows, and shrugs. Spencer looks but it's hard to tell if his belly is swollen because he's so thin to begin with and his shirt is loose and baggy. He bets it's getting there, though, if it's not there already: round and firm and full, full almost to the point of bursting.

"Can't waste food," Brendon says. "What about the poor kids in Africa?"

"I don’t think you eating a half dozen muffins really provides a solution to famine in Africa " Spencer says, a little cross, a little unsettled, a little pleased.

Brendon doesn't answer; he's taking another big bite.

A few nights later they have Regan and Shane over for dinner and Spencer makes pasta in a tomato basil sauce. It's really good. They'd spent the morning on the beach and he's pretty hungry; he knows Regan and Shane are too, and Brendon, well, he'll eat any time.

They're all full and content. Spencer tops off everyone's glass, finishing the second bottle of wine. It's a warm evening and there's nothing better than sitting here talking with friends. Eventually though, Regan and Shane say their goodbyes and it's just Spencer and Brendon left.

"Guess we've gotta clean up," Spencer says. He stands, slowly. He’s sore from the morning on the waves. He glances down at the bowl of pasta, and over at Brendon, considering, knowing that what he’s about to do is bad bad bad. "No point in saving this, I guess."

"I'll eat it," Brendon says, slowly.

Spencer should say no. He should, but he’s not sure if he can. He just swallows slowly and passes him the bowl. Brendon scoops two big spoonfuls of pasta onto his plate. He'd already eaten two servings and a bunch of bread and salad covered in dressing. Spencer doesn't know why he knows that; lately he's fixated on what Brendon's eating, on how much he eats. On the idea of Brendon eating more and more and …

He takes a sip of his wine. He needs to calm down. He needs to breath.

"This is seriously so good," Brendon says, mouth half full. "It would probably be a crime to throw this away.

Spencer rolls his eyes and laughs. "Whatever you say, dude," he says, but he's just stalling because really his dick is starting to swell and he's flushed. Brendon's shirt has ridden up and Spencer can see plain as day the round swell of his stomach, the way his abs are pushed up and stretched across the mass of food in his gut. He gets a sudden, indelible image in his mind of Brendon sprawled on the couch eating donuts, naked, dick hard and red and swollen -- almost as swollen as his gut. Spencer kneads Brendon's belly while he sucks him off, and Brendon just eats more and more and more and …

He has to excuse himself to go do the dishes before things get out of hand. Standing at the kitchen sink, hands pressed into the counter, he watches Brendon out the window. He’s still going, sopping up the sauce with a piece of bread. It’s so stupidly hot Spencer has to look away.

He really, really needs to say something.

They're sitting on the couch the next night watching something on television when he says, "So, I’m going to ask you a question, and it’s going to be weird."

“Weirder than the time you asked me if I thought penguins should be yellow?” Brendon raises his eyebrows.

Spencer frowns. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I was totally stoned.”

“It was pretty weird, though,” Brendon says. “If they were yellow they’d stick out like sore thumbs in Antarctica.”

“I was high,” Spencer says, defensive. “I’m not responsible for my drugged musing about Antarctic fauna.”

“I know,” Brendon says. “At least you never asked me what I thought your boobs would look like if you were a girl. _That_ was weird.”

Spencer thinks a minute.

“Ryan?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, laughing and shaking his head.

Spencer thinks maybe this was a bad idea, and he’s trying to come up with some other weird question he can ask or some super important chore he can remember he needs to do before …

“So what’s the weird question?” Brendon asks. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

Spencer closes his eyes and waits for divine inspiration to provide him with another question, but it doesn’t, and he sees Brendon, sated and sleepy and he knows he’s not going to be able to stop thinking about this.

“Did you like, not have enough to eat when you were a kid?” Brendon looks confused. Spencer quickly continues. “Because, um. We have plenty of food. Like, I’m really good about grocery shopping. You’ve seen the list on the fridge. We’re not going to run out.”

Brendon take a longtime to reply. He hasn’t moved. He’s still sprawled across the couch, but he's not looking at Spencer and the line of his shoulders is taut. Spencer can tell he's embarrassed, which makes Spencer’s stomach sour, and makes him think that this was a really, really, really awful idea.

“We always had enough food,” Brendon says, voice low.

“Is it some Mormon thing?” Spencer asks, too quickly.

“No,” Brendon says. There’s a long pause. “It just feels really good. I like it, I guess.”

“Oh,” Spencer says.

“I know that’s fucking weird,” Brendon says. “Whatever. I’m a weirdo.”

“No,” Spencer says. “No. Uh. I like it too. I mean. You look kind of stupidly hot when you’re all full.”

Brendon looks at him incredulously. “You’re not messing with me?”

Spencer shakes his head. “I thought _I_ was the weird one.”

“You are,” Brendon says. “But not about this. Not weirder than me, anyway.”

“Watching you eat kind of gets me stupidly hot,” Spencer says. His cheeks are undoubtedly red. “That’s kind of weird.”

“No,” Brendon says. “It’s kind of awesome, and it gives me an idea.”

“An idea?”

"Yeah," Brendon says, a little too quickly. "Cheesecake."

"Cheesecake?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "You. Me. Cheesecake. I think maybe you could uh, feed me some. And then we could do some other stuff."

Spencer closes his eyes. He thinks about Brendon’s mouth -- Brendon’s _mouth_ \-- wrapped around a fork. “I think I’d like that,” he says.

"Cool," Brendon says, and then he reaches for the remote and the conversation is -- for the time being -- done.

They have Chinese for dinner that night. Brendon eats a lot, more than he normally would. Spencer’s so nervous about this he can barely eat at all. He pushes his General Tso’s Chicken around his plate until Brendon asks if he can finish it.

Of course he says Brendon can.

He walks the dog after dinner because Brendon says he needs to do ‘stuff’, and when he gets back Brendon calls him upstairs. He takes off his shoes and puts them in the closet and then walks upstairs to the bedroom. Brendon is sitting on the bed wearing old red boxer briefs and nothing else. There's a boxed cheesecake on the dresser, and a big glass of milk. It's dark, and the electric lamplight is harsh. Brendon’s stomach still looks a little full from dinner, but not very much.

"New York-style, huh?" Spencer says, glancing at the box as he takes off his shirt, his pants.

"Totally," Brendon says. "It's the best."

Spencer is standing in his underwear in the middle of their bedroom, and he's not really sure what he's supposed to do next.

"So do you just want me to ...?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. He's leaning back into the pillows at the head of the bed, and his toes curl.

So Spencer takes the box and the fork and sets them on the bed. He puts the glass of milk on the nightstand. The cheesecake hasn't been cut into slices, so he just kind of digs in and takes a forkful and holds it up to Brendon's waiting mouth. His red lips close around the fork, and he swallows. His eyes are closed and his lashes are dark on his cheekbones. Brendon's ready for the next forkful right away. He barely chews. Spencer’s eyes follows the prominence of his Adam's apple as he swallows. His hands are resting on his stomach, over the ridges of his hips. His eyes are still closed, like he's concentrating on the taste so completely he doesn't have room to think about anything else.

Spencer hesitates a minute, and Brendon opens his eyes just a little and wraps his hand around Spencer's wrist.

"Come on," he says.

"Sorry," Spencer says. "Uh, yeah ..."

There is a lot more. Spencer kind of doubts that Brendon can finish it after downing all that Chinese earlier, but he’s pretty glad he gets to watch Brendon try.

Brendon’s lips get redder. They’re shiny with spit when when he licks them. There's a bit of cheesecake smeared on his chin and a bit on his cheek and Spencer wants to reach over and wipe it off. Brendon's breathing a little heavily. The cheesecake is a quarter gon. Brendon’s belly is a little more distended, a convex curve from his groin up to the base of his rib cage instead of concave. His fingers are pressing down into that swollen flesh, massaging, like his stomach aches.

“You full?” Spencer asks.

Brendon looks up. “Not yet,” he says. “Still got plenty of room.”

He pats his belly and sort of grunts and that noise -- _that_ noise -- goes right to Spencer’s dick. He shifts, uncomfortable. Brendon’s already hard, has been from almost the beginning, but he’s ignoring the bulge in his red underwear, and Spencer’s ignoring it too in favor of helping him stuff his face.

“It must taste really good,” he says. “You can’t even stop, can you?”

“I can’t,” Brendon says. “I know I should, but I can’t.” His mouth is full; his cheeks bulge.

“It’s okay,” Spencer says. “There’s a lot more.”

It’s true -- Brendon’s only halfway done with the cheesecake. His belly is really swollen now, bulging out into a little gut.

He's really full -- more full than the night with the spaghetti, more full than Spencer's ever seen him -- and he still doesn't want to stop.

Oh god, it's so fucking hot Spencer can't handle it.

"I kept watching you," he says, in an undertone. "I kept watching you and thinking about how hot it was, how full you got, how you didn't care at all. I thought I was a weirdo."

"I told you already," Brendon says. "You are, but not because of this." He takes another big bite. His eyes close, and he breathes in through his nose. "Don't think I've ever been this full. Feel like the Thanksgiving turkey or something. Fuck."

"We can stop," Spencer says. He likes this -- fucking loves it -- but he doesn't want Brendon to get hurt. "Save the rest for later."

"No," Brendon says. "No. I'm good. Um. Maybe you can rub my belly and I can ... "

He reaches for the fork, and the box of cheesecake. Grunting, he rolls on to his side, cradling his belly like it's so tender, so sore. And it must be. Spencer trembles and puts his hands on Brendon's belly; the skin is hot, and it is soft, and it is smooth. It feels so good. He presses gently with his palms, a steady, soothing motion.

"Does that help?" he asks.

"Yeah. Feels really good," Brendon says. He's got cheesecake everywhere now ... all over his face. He's not even using the fork. He's just shoveling it in his hands. Spencer's thumbs press in and Brendon looks pained for a second, and then belches. He puts his hand over Spencer's. "More room," he murmurs. "Thanks."

Spencer ignores his own hard dick, and slides further down the bed. Brendon's so hard, dick straining against his underwear. Spencer runs his thumbs under the elastic and slides it down, just a little bit. He looks up, and Brendon has paused. He's watching.

"I want to ..." Spencer swallows. "Um. Can I suck you off?"

Brendon's hair is a mess and there's creamy cheesecake all over his face and his gut is the size of a bowling ball. He's finished almost the whole entire cheesecake now. Spencer can't believe he did. He can't believe how much Brendon's eaten tonight.

"Uh, of course," he says. He sits up a little, and then he moans and presses a hand to his belly. "Ugh, I feel like I'm gonna pop."

Spencer's dick jumps. He _looks_ like he's going to pop, and if they keep doing this (and they are so going to keep doing this) he really need to do some research about exactly how much one stomach -- even Brendon's stomach -- can hold.

Apparently, it can hold a little bit more. Brendon's head is thrown back and he's shoving one last handful of cake into his mouth. His other hand, sticky with cheesecake, is rubbing his belly. He's filthy and debauched and gorgeous and Spencer thinks he might come from the sight of him alone.

But he's not going to come before he gets Brendon off. He slips the elastic further down Brendon's lean thighs. His dick is not all that unfamiliar (hello, bus life) but Spencer's definitely never seen it like this before. It's so red and so hard, bobbing every time Brendon's hips shift, every time he shifts to try to ease the pressure in his belly. Spencer places one hand around the base. He leans closer, lets the wet slit brush his cheek, and then takes the head of Brendon's cock into his mouth.

It's salty and flesh-tasting. Spencer hasn't done this so many times ... not at all. But Brendon tastes better than the other two guys Spencer blew, and he's so much hotter. Spencer looks up through his eyelashes and Brendon's belly looms like a huge pink dome. The cheesecake is all gone -- all inside Brendon's swollen belly. He moans as he rubs his gut.

"Feels so good," he says. "Feels like there's nothing in the world except my big heavy belly and my fat dick in your mouth."

Spencer sucks harder. Brendon's hips buck, and his dick brushes the roof of Spencer's mouth and his eyes tear for a second. He would say something, but Brendon is gone, so totally gone, so he just takes a hand and stills Brendon's hips. His thumb traces the ridge of Brendon's hipbone. It's so hot ... god. He's so hot.

Brendon reaches down and one of his sticky hands finds Spencer's cheek. He cups it, and then works his hand up and into Spencer's hair.

"You feel so good," Brendon says. He's gasping and breathless. "You made me feel so good, Spence. I've never been as full as this. Oh god. I’m gonna come."

Spencer pulls off, replaces his mouth on Brendon’s dick with his hand and strokes him through his orgasm. His hand is sticky with Brendon’s come, and he’s so hard it’s wavering between pleasure and pain. Brendon’s eyes are still closed, but he whispers, “Get up here, Spence.”

Spencer crawls awkwardly up the bed and lays parallel to Brendon. Brendon opens his eyes and smiles. “That was awesome,” he says.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, trying not to squirm. “I’m … uh.”

Brendon looks down the length of his body. Spencer’s dick is pressing through the cloth into the curve of Brendons’ belly.

“Sorry,” he says. He presses a kiss to Spencer’s cheek and reaches his hand under the elastic waist of Spencer’s underwear and wraps his his hand around Spencer’s dick.

It’s embarrassing how quickly Spencer comes, or it would be, but he can’t help himself. Brendon’s hard full belly is pressing into his and Brendon’s hand is warm on his dick and this is kind of the hottest thing he’s ever done.

They lay still for a while afterward, Spencer’s arm draped over Brendon’s belly, Brendon’s nose pressed into Spencer’s shoulder. Finally, they roll stickily apart.

“You’re kinda gross,” Spencer says.

“I know,” Brendon says. “Don’t care. Too full too move.” He rolls over, turgid, and his stomach rumbles loudly in protest. It quiets, and then gurgles again.

“He’s singing,” Brendon says, patting his belly. He sounds almost … proud.

“Sounds pretty good,” Spencer says. “Like you.”

Brendon smiles, eyes closed. “You flatterer. You just want to do this again, don’t you?”

Spencer is too spent to bother looking sheepish. “It was kind of the hottest thing ever,” he says.

“No kidding,” Brendon says, and he leans forward for another kiss as his belly groans.


End file.
